


The Heart of Erebor

by aredhel_of_gondolin



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: But they're the best idiots, Complete AU, Dragons, Dwarves have magic, F/M, Female Bilbo Baggins, Frerin Lives, Fíli and Kíli are Idiots, I'll add more tags as I update, I'm getting too attached to my OC aren't I...., I'm playing in the sandbox of canon and I'm loving it, Orcs, Orcs control Erebor, Rule 63, We all love Fili and Kili, Where did Smaug go?, fem!Bilbo, hobbits have magic, like I said a complete AU, no beta we die like my history grade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26913106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aredhel_of_gondolin/pseuds/aredhel_of_gondolin
Summary: What if orcs had taken over Erebor before the company had ever set out? What if Frerin hadn't died at the Battle of Azanulbizar, but was taken as a slave by those orcs?In a world divergent from what Bilba feels it should be, Hobbits have magic. Magic strong enough for orcs to have taken her captive as a child back to Erebor in order to serve them as a slave. There, she is subject to a miserable life under the authority of the orcs, living silently and never drawing attention to herself. But when roars begin to echo throughout the mountain and rumors are heard of a plan to march on the elven fortress of Mirkwood and the rest of Arda, silence is no longer an option.And with the rest of Middle Earth completely oblivious to the army of orcs occupying Erebor, the ripples of the darkness are poised to spread farther than ever before.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 62





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Of Dwobbits, Dragons and Dwarves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1579232) by [ISeeFire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ISeeFire/pseuds/ISeeFire). 



> Okay so I got this idea and it wouldn't leave me alone, so prepare for a (hopefully) epic story. Just as a general announcement, picture everything you know about the typical Hobbit canon. Now you know what this story doesn't look like. But here is a short preview of what I've changed: Bilbo is henceforth Bilba, Frerin is alive, Erebor is secretly occupied by orcs, and both Hobbits and Dwarves have magic.
> 
> I have it planned out to be quite long, so please please please read and review to tell me if anybody would like to read this!! I'm much more motivated to continue if I know people like this.

“Mama? I’m hungry,” declared Bilba Baggins from atop her little pony, with all the authority of a queen.

Her mother looked back from the path ahead and smiled, laughing lightly. “We’re almost ready to stop for supper, darling.”

“But I haven’t eaten since we ate dinner and I’m hungry!” she began to pout. “Are we there yet?”

Belladonna Baggins just shook her head at her little one’s antics, but began to look for a place to camp for the night.

Of course, Bilba considered this practically the end of the world—she’d been travelling all day and she was tired and her stomach was protesting that it was hungry! She was just gathering enough breath to launch into a royally frightful temper tantrum when she felt someone poke her side, tickling her.

Her irritable mood partially abated, she began to giggle contagiously at the funny sensation from her father next to her. Between chortles, she peered over and saw him holding a finger over his lips, a knowing smile spreading across his face.

Instantly she decided that whatever secret business this was, must at all costs be kept from her mother (but she knew it couldn’t be serious, because Bungo would never keep anything important from his wife). Her eyebrows waggled up and down in silent question.

Her father shifted slightly to rummage in his pack, as quietly and stealthily as he could. Bilba gasped with joy and surprise when he withdrew a small apple pastry. Bungo snuck it up to her and she took it eagerly.

The rest of her childish grumpiness dissipated when she bit into it. Sweet apple flavors flooded her mouth as part of one of the best apple pastries she’d ever had. It must be her mother’s secret recipe—nobody else made apple pastries like her mama.

At the sudden silence, her mother swung around, an inquiring look on her face. Bilba and Bungo froze, the former still holding the remnants of the pastry in her hand and crumbs coating her mouth.

“Bungo! Those were supposed to be a surprise!” Belladonna tilted her head, trying to act annoyed, though Bilba giggled lightly to see that the corners of her mouth were twitching. She knew then that her mother really wasn’t angry at them.

“They’re delicious, mama!” she said very seriously. At this, the motherly hobbit lost the stern face and broke out into a smile, more than a little amused to see the shocked faces of her husband and daughter sneaking her own apple pastries behind her back. Even more hilarious were the residual crumbs lingering at the corners of both of their mouths—and Bungo desperately trying to discretely wipe his away and not incriminate himself.

Belladonna allowed herself a small chuckle. Yavanna only knew that she couldn’t stay mad at her family—especially when there were apple pastries to be eaten. And there, up ahead and a little ways off the path, was a green clearing, perfect to set up camp for the night.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Bilba woke up to screaming. Instinctively she froze and looked around for her mother, but she was nowhere to be seen.

A cold wind assailed her face, whipping her short auburn curls in wild movements. Shivering, she burrowed deeper into the makeshift sleeping bag she was currently residing in. Outside, the horrible agonized noises gave way to angry snarls.

A cold fear solidified in her stomach as she realized the gravity of the situation. Bandits. Her mother had warned her about possible dangers of their sojourn to Bree, but she had shrugged off all the warnings with the same flippancy she did to childish bedtime stories.

A sharp twinge of pain in her back brought her attention to the sharp tree root she was pressed back against with unrelenting terror. She clenched her eyes shut, trying to suppress the sobs now welling up in her chest.

Instinctively, her hand crept out of the wrapped blanket to lay upon the cold, wet soil. She drew upon it and the reassuring energy of the earth trickled into her. It felt so strange, for such a warm feeling to come from the icy and forbidding dirt. Trying to remember what her mother had taught her, she pictured a manipulation of the energy to refract the light around her, and waited.

Then a shadow fell upon her. Or rather, it fell upon the ground where she was, for the little hobbit child was no longer visible to an untrained eye.

“Wot’s this over here?” Bilba flinched at the raspy and cruel voice. It echoed unnaturally in her ears, sending shivers down her spine. She didn’t dare open her eyes.

Another voice called back, “Is it coin?”, and the two voices were soon lost in the following cacophony of the panic which blotted out every conscious thought in her mind.

She felt rough hands tug at her blanket, and she could no longer remain still. All at once she became animated with violent motion. Her legs kicked out at her assailant, and she flung her arms into fists. A surprised grunt sounded at this unlikely development.

“Oi, get over here, the blanket’s moving,” it growled.

Bilba’s chest was pounding as adrenaline coursed through her veins, amplifying every stimulus and speeding her irrational thoughts. Rough hands grabbed the blanket and she tumbled out, a tangle of limbs.

As soon as her hand lost contact with the earth, the steady energy stemming from it dissipated as well. Shaking with terror, she slowly raised her head to see a disgusting face leering at her from behind a battered helmet. Black eyes gleamed with surprise—and satisfaction. Bilba realized that she was looking at an orc. A huge, nasty, dangerous orc.

“I found something! Over here!” it yelled, and Bilba flinched as spittle landed on her face. She was beyond scared now, and verging on paralytic shock. Though she tried to run, tried to fight, her body refused to obey her, and she was left in the hands of the orc.

Two more of the creatures joined them, and they made quick work of searching her blanket and other belongings. She looked down at her shoulder and dimly recognized, as though through a fog, the warm stickiness of her own blood leaking out from where the orc was gripping her with jagged nails.

Because of this shock, she looked around for the first time and saw her parents, lying about a stone’s throw away. Even in the dark moonlight, she was able to make out their features in gruesome clarity.

There was no mistaking the death lingering on their bodies.

Bilba screamed. She threw herself onto the ground, grasping and clutching at dirt and any small plants she could find. Her palms scraped on the rough ground as gravel dug into her skin, but she paid it no heed. In her grief, she drew enough energy to leave a blight on the earth, spreading for a few feet to either side.

Her mother had warned her never to take so much energy.

But her mother was dead. And so she drew upon the life of the earth, and channeled it through her very soul. Never before had she allowed such rage to flow through her; it was all consuming, and she began to direct it at the orc who was grasping her shoulder with such a painfully tight grip.

She registered the other orcs babbling on about magic and accursed halflings, but she ignored them, needing an outlet for the energy she had drawn.

The small hobbit child brimmed with power…and released, her knees buckling under the sheer power of the force she carried. It burst through the clearing in a shockwave, rippling through the trees with deadly intensity.

Everything went quiet.

Dim sounds echoed through her ears like whispers through water.

The orcs were dead, that much she knew.

But so were her parents.

All at once, her emotions caught up to her and sobs tore out of her chest, robbing her of air and control as she tore towards her parents, motionless on the ground. Scattered tree roots caught on her feet and she skidded on the loose leaf cover.

But just when she was about to reach them, to get to her mother and father, another shout split the night. Through the trees came even more orcs, drawn by her concussive blast. They converged upon her, forming a circle.

She tried to draw again from the earth, but she had exhausted herself from that last burst and she was left defenseless. Bilba continued to cry, nothing more than a young hobbit overwhelmed by the sudden horrific turn her life had taken, and her eyes darted back and forth between the members of the encroaching force. Something caught the back of her heel and she tumbled backwards, her fall broken by the still body of her mother.

Bilba started and whipped around, greeted only by the sight of her mother’s motionless eyes.

It all became too much and she breathed a short prayer to Yavanna before everything went black, and she too tumbled to the ground.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Bilba awoke very slowly, the dregs of consciousness weighing heavily upon her as she came to reality. For a short and blissful moment, she wondered why she had fallen asleep in such an uncomfortable position. Perhaps she had accidentally drifted off in that old wooden armchair? Or had she—

And with a sudden, horrible clarity she knew. She remembered the brutally violent deaths of her parents. She remembered the blind terror that had seized her very soul when she had caught sight of that orc standing over her.

She remembered the feeling of drifting, of losing her touch with reality when she’d channeled so much energy from the earth. She remembered that her parents were dead. She remembered falling on her mother’s body.

She remembered and she cried.

Bilba lost all sense of time as she sobbed. Her life as she knew it was over, and the small hobbit child found no hope at all in her situation.

She hadn’t been moved far—she could still see the abandoned campsite not far away where she had been the night before. Now, it was dawn, and she looked mournfully at the streaking oranges and brilliant reds of the rising sun in the sky. Usually, she would have gone and fetched her parents to watch such a glorious sunrise, but now she just couldn’t bring herself to care.

Bilba felt lost. Lost in spirit and lost in soul. Thoughts and memories circled through her mind, swirling and repeating to the point where they all blurred together. Tears dripped down her cheeks and her eyes stung.

She knew she was alone—for the moment, at least. Recollections of the additional orcs from the night before told her that she was still in deep trouble. And though she couldn’t see any orcs at the moment, her nose wrinkled at the residual odors which were so strong that they had to be fresh.

Briefly, she entertained the possibility of escape. But where was she to go? She knew they were far enough away from the main path that she knew there was little chance of her finding safety, either in the form of a town or other travelers. Bilba began to cry again as she thought of her cozy hobbit hole back in the Shire.

Emotion swept through her like a physical tidal wave, leaving her feeling as though she’d been swept under by a strong current. She just wanted to be safe again, to be able to hug her parents and feel a sense of security once more. She wasn’t a toddler, but she was old enough to realize that it was unlikely she would ever feel such safety again.

But Bilba made up her mind to at least try, and she pushed herself up into a sitting position with shaky limbs, though it was made slightly more difficult when she realized that she was tied securely by the waist to a tree. Her palms began to burn sharply from the cuts she’d gained the night before on the gravelly ground, and a short cry of pain escaped her, even though she’d meant to stay silent.

She wasn’t entirely certain that she could after her exertion the night before, but she flipped her hands over so that the bloodied palms faced upwards, and connected her soul with the earth.

As Bilba expected, the Hobbit Gift came much slower than usual, but it was present. And so she closed her eyes and shut out everything except the pain and the earth. She withdrew deep within herself and focused. Manipulating earth energy to become life energy—healing energy—was more difficult because it involved her reshaping the energy. Or at least that’s what her mother had taught her; she didn’t fully grasp the concept.

A fresh wave of grief swept through her at the thought, but Bilba managed to stay focused on the healing. So focused, in fact, that she didn’t notice the orcs returning.

She didn’t notice the gleam in their eyes as they watched the hobbit child place her hands on the earth, focusing intensely as the very skin in her hands healed over with supernatural swiftness. She didn’t see the gleam in their eyes when they saw her magic, or hear their whispers about selling her into slavery and bringing her to a place called ‘Erebor’. And she didn’t register the hushed discussion about how valuable she would be in service of their master.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two! I was really indecisive about this one, so let me know what you think.  
> Oh, also Hobbit lifespans are as long as Dwarf lifespans, just because I can.

**_Fifteen years later_ **

“Another one?”

Bilba huffed with exhaustion, taking a precious few seconds to tuck a limp curl back into her loosely tied bun.

“I’m afraid so,” sighed Frerin, frowning and clearly irritated with the situation. “Do you think you can handle it?”

“You know I have to,” Bilba muttered. “Besides, it’s easier in this courtyard because I can actually touch at least a little bit of earth.” She looked down and wriggled her toes, relishing the feel of soil beneath her bare feet. “It’s not as if I enjoy it though.”

Frerin clenched his jaw. “Trust me, I hate it just as much as you do. It’s….wrong, to be doing this.” He turned and looked at Bilba, and she wasn’t at all surprised to see the look of pure revulsion on his face.

“Hurry it up there,” shouted an orc from the doorway, making them both snap to attention.

Bilba and Frerin muttered their apologies and set to work on the orc placed in front of them. It had a massive and bloody gash across the chest.

Bilba held one hand clasped with Frerin and the other laid atop an injured orc. As always, she grimaced at the feeling. Then she drew a deep breath, and mentally tugged the thread upon which her Hobbit Gift hung. Some of it flowed from the earth beneath her, but at least double that came from Frerin. Bilba channeled the energy, manipulating it from the raw life-force of the earth into the refined and gentle warm energy required for healing.

Her brow furrowed in concentration as she forced the energy to do her bidding. Since the first time she’d done this, it had recoiled upon her contact with an orc. It pleaded, as though it was a conscious being, to be released through a different manner. She had to wrest it under control, and as a result, healing orcs caused her to expend much more energy than it would to heal a different being. The orcs just felt so polluted, and her Gift never wanted to heal them. But it was either that or death, so she did what was needed to survive.

Another few minutes passed with Bilba lost in focus. But when she was done, the orc was healed and she was exhausted. Bilba swayed lightly on her feet, and Frerin hurried to steady her.

She was glad that Frerin was with her today. Normally, she’d have to rely solely on the energy provided to her from the meager soil in the courtyard set in the side of the mountain. But it was much easier with Frerin acting as a conduit for the stone’s energy as well.

It was strange, she supposed, how different and yet how alike their Gifts were. Hers was given by Yavanna to Hobbits, and enabled them to draw upon the life in the earth and channel it to their own desires, whether it be encouraging a garden to grow, refracting the light around them to turn mostly invisible, or using it to heal. But Frerin’s magic was gifted by Mahal, the maker of the Dwarves. Their Gift drew upon the energy of stone—hence their preference and natural affinity for large mountains.

Though they both were able to draw forth energy, Frerin utilized his in a different way; mainly in gathering a feel for the stone to sense what faults, veins, or caverns lay beneath the surface. But he could also channel its solid nature and confer it upon himself—making his skin become like stone.

Both of their Gifts involved the manipulation of energy from its natural differing sources, but once it entered them, for lack of a better term, its nature became the same. This was why Bilba was able to siphon energy from the mountain _through_ Frerin and use it to heal.

Bilba came back to reality when she realized Frerin was softly calling her name.

“Bilba?”

“I’m here,” she said weakly. She must’ve passed out again. _That would make it the….._ she paused, frowning as she thought, _third time today._ In all honesty, that’s probably why they’d allowed Frerin to help her. Well, that and the influx of wounded orc who’d proved themselves worthy in the arena.

The orc currently watching them grunted in disgust at her prominent display of weakness. She locked eyes with it and raged internally.

_It’s not like they feed us enough anyways, you dim-witted bastard of a monster._

The orc snarled and she was forced to drop her gaze. She’d learned the hard way that some semblance of respect was expected of her. A phantom echo of pain lanced down her back at the mere memory of that day. Frerin, somehow knowing what was going through her mind, placed his hand on her shoulders and the steady, reassuring presence grounded her.

Instinctively, she hunched her shoulders and bowed her head in submission. It was the orcs’ preferred posture, and it seemed to work, as the guard scoffed and turned back around.

But inside, she was brimming with anger at the orcs for ruining for her life, for forcing innocents to fight and die in the arena for their own entertainment. _Erebor is just really messed up_ , she concluded. She was angry, but for the most part, she just…. existed, without really feeling. After she’d been taken by the orcs and brought here, she’d quickly learned that showing of any emotion was highly frowned upon. So she hadn’t shown emotion, but quashed almost everything she felt down to that tiny antechamber in her soul which was kept under lock and key.

As soon as the guard had turned around, she straightened slightly. “I hope that’s the last one for today,” she mumbled, still a bit unsteady from the healing.

The orc in question lay sleeping on a table placed out in the courtyard. It was the one side effect of using her healing on orcs that she was actually thankful for—they always seemed to pass out once she started. Perhaps it was because they weren’t used to such pure benevolent energy being poured into them.

Bilba realized she’d been consumed by her thoughts and offered an apologetic look at Frerin.

He just nodded, having been in the same scenario more than once.

Another sudden movement at the door leading inside the mountain caught their attention. Through it came yet another orc on a stretcher, having come directly from the arena.

Bilba slumped and resigned herself to her miserable existence.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Frerin watched them bring the next orc in, and he sensed more than felt Bilba droop next to him. He hated this place. Everything about what it was made him want to punch somebody—or better yet, an orc.

Erebor was supposed to be his ancestral home, the mountain of his parents and their parents before them. Instead, orcs had somehow driven out or killed the dragon who had imposed when he’d been only a pebble.

Every day he was reminded of his people’s failures. Every day he was forced to endure the revolting presence of these foul beasts in his mountain. Even worse, he was forced to tend to his father’s murderer. It was humiliating, a blight on his soul that he wasn’t sure he could ever recover from. He’d initially tried to resist Azog’s rules, the demeaning life of a slave. It had been a sort of solace for him, and he’d used the resulting pain as a way to keep his sanity. It’d kept him aware, and it had kept him angry. He’d fully planned on killing Azog if he ever got the chance.

But while the pale orc had delighted in his defiance as an excuse to inflict cruel torture, he’d soon realized that it was brutally gratifying to force the dwarf into submission. In his cruel mind, Azog decided that whenever Frerin resisted him, he’d force the dwarf to watch him slowly torture one of the dwarrow slaves in the mountain. It was pleasing to him, and Frerin couldn’t ever bring himself to be the cause of his people suffering.

So he stayed quiet, kept his head down, and barely spoke—all for the sake of his people. But he was angry. Every second, of every hour, of every day, he simmered with barely contained rage which pulsed and struggled to be released. Frerin itched with the urge to take a weapon and kill as many orcs as he could before falling in an honorable death. But he knew that should he do so, the accursed orcs would butcher at least twice that number of his own kinsmen. And that wasn’t a consequence he was willing to leave behind.

Bilba shifted beside him and Frerin reluctantly dragged himself back to this miserable excuse for reality. He turned to the hobbit, an internal noise building in his ears.

Couldn’t they see that this _child_ wouldn’t be able to withstand another healing? In his pent-up emotion, he delved into the depths of Erebor’s energy—an instinctive and uncontrollable response to the perceived threat. It mattered not that he didn’t want to tunnel as deep as he did. Realizing what exactly he was doing, and the immediate danger he posed to Bilba next to him, he withdrew as fast as he could. But the Gift couldn’t be rushed, and Bilba laid her hand on his shoulder in order before he could pull back completely.

They both went rigid at the massive influx of power and he mentally loosed a string of curses. Too much—he’d gathered too much energy to be safely transferred to the hobbit. He should’ve learned by now to carefully moderate his magic. Frerin gritted his teeth under the strain and tried to forcibly push some energy back into the mountain and out of himself, but in doing so—in mindlessly shoving it out—he accidentally conducted some of that energy to Bilba.

She was caught completely by surprise by the sudden influx of the mountain’s energy pulsing through her, and had to brace herself against the input. She felt the ground keenly beneath her feet, and the rough sliminess of the orc’s skin on her palm. For a brief, inexplicable moment, everything spiraled into a point of intensely perfect clarity, and she felt the mountain itself like a whisper darting through a misty field.

Despite the increased magnitude of the energy—in a form she wasn’t very well acquainted with handling—the healing came easier as she internalized the force.

She couldn’t explain it; the sudden relief of self. Her brow furrowed and the beginnings of a headache made itself known as she considered what had been different this time.

There _had_ been something different, Bilba knew that much. Instead of being utterly drained and lethargic, she felt a new awareness. And though she certainly wasn’t going to be walking with a spring in her step anytime soon, the absence of the heaviness she’d grown used to felt somewhat relieved.

So deep was she in contemplation that it was only when Frerin beside her called her name that she opened her eyes again.

_Oh no._

This was bad. Very bad.

Bilba could sense Frerin rigid and completely unmoving beside her, coils of dread beginning to stir within her own stomach.

Her shoulders hunched and slumped, an instinctual response. Any moment now, the orc guard would notice.

The vile creature would turn around and see the husk on the table in front of them, the gaunt remins of the orc she was supposed to have healed.

The orc she had inadvertently killed by channeling too much of her magic. Again, she couldn’t explain it, but her Gift liked pure things—good things. Seeming to be somewhat aware, as all Hobbit magic was, it would automatically seek out the stain of corruption and erase it.

In the case of the orcs, if she wasn’t careful, her magic would wipe out their very life when she tried to heal them. And the consequences were never good.

A long second passed.

Then another.

And another.

Nothing happened.

Bilba tentatively released the tight shutting of her eyes, cracking them open. The orc by the door hadn’t moved at all. In fact, it was almost too still. Her spine straightened infinitesimally as she waited. And as if waiting for a cue, a light wind blew through the courtyard.

The orc toppled over like a limp sack of meat.

Bilba sucked in a frantic breath, her mind going into overdrive. Had she caused this? Had she finally lost her carefully controlled magic?

The sudden stillness must have attracted unwanted attention, for another orc guard came to peer through the doorway back into the dark mountain. Bilba knew that she was in deep trouble the exact moment its eyes met hers, and she began to hyperventilate.

The orc took in the scene, piecing together previous events with a swiftness that belied its dull looks. It loosed a harsh call down the corridor to summon more of its brethren, and a steady increase of footsteps began to echo within her range of hearing.

“You,” it snarled. Bilba was still frozen in terror, her gaze locked on the face which now snarled at her and Frerin. Though she tried to speak, to deny any involvement, her voice failed her.

Of course, the orcs took her silence as a clear admission of guilt. With a grumbling shout, an orc shot forward, every footstep as heavy as a death knoll in Bilba’s mind.

This was it. They were finally going to kill her.

She bent her head and waited.

But the orc never struck her. Somehow Bilba had missed Frerin moving from her side to stand in front of her.

“It wasn’t her fault,” the dwarf ground out, halting the orc’s advance. “I’m the one you should blame.”

The orc sneered in Frerin’s face. “And I’m sure the halfling slave had nothing to do with it.”

Bilba watched, eyes wide, at the confrontation. Sometime after the healing-gone-wrong, she’d lost touch with both the earth’s and the mountain’s energy, leaving her feeling eerily disjointed.

“She didn’t,” refuted Frerin, firm and resolute in his claim. “I pulled too much of the mountain’s energy and lost control. You’re lucky you’re not all dead.” Bit by bit, Frerin’s posture straightened, until he was standing erect before the orc captain, defiance clear in his eyes.

The orc in question only glared. Then, a sickeningly cruel smile stretched its way across his face. “If you’re so at fault, you will pay.” The orc turned to its companions. “Throw him in with the others. He’ll fight for us tomorrow.”

Those fateful words echoed through Bilba’s consciousness. It may as well have been a death sentence. A single, broken whisper escaped her lips.

“No… _please._ ” 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

When Bilba Baggins had arrived at Erebor all those years ago, nothing more than a terrified, starving, and traumatized hobbit babe thrust into his arms, Frerin had made a promise to himself. It had been almost out of spite towards the orcs who’d brought her to the mountain in a near-comatose state. If he was being honest with himself, he hadn’t wanted the responsibility of looking after a child, but like all dwarves, he saw children as sacred gifts from the Valar, and he hadn’t been able to turn her away. So when the _rukhs shirumund caragu_ dropped her into his care with only the order that he keep her alive, he’d been unable to refuse. It was only later that he learned she’d been brought because of her Gift. Stronger than his own, even.

They had both been shocked that she could handle life-energy from both the earth she was used to and from him, but the orcs had only used it against them.

And though she’d had a poor excuse for a childhood, growing up in a cesspit of stench and misery, he’d tried. He had only failed in his promise once before, but it hadn’t been for fault of his own. No, they’d both almost died that day.

So when it became clear that the orcs planned to kill her for the lapse of control on his own part, Frerin didn’t even have to think.

And as the orc lunged, he stepped forward, casting off the demeanor he’d worn so long as a slave. If he weren’t so certain of his torture and eventual death, he’d relish it.

But that whisper, so quiet that he almost didn’t hear it. That single phrase, so loaded with unspoken emotion. He hesitated.

Her thoughts, though unvoiced, pierced his mind. _Are you so ready to cast your life away?_

He turned and met her gaze. _You know my promise,_ he seemed to say.

Then the orcs brought forth a length of rough cord, bound his wrists, and led him away.

He only hoped he’d live to see her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rukhs shirumund caragu → beardless orc dung  
> Thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos on the last chapter!!


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm planning to try to consistently update on Saturdays, but here's a chapter a day early!!

Bilba hurried through the dim tunnel, still in shock from the events the day before. She barely felt the sharp bite of pebbles beneath her feet; so consumed was she by her worry. It gnawed and ate at her like a living thing, draining all her precious energy. When Frerin had been taken away, she floundered—both mentally and physically. And whatever outcome this day had, she’d do her best to make it a favorable one. It was her job, after all, to heal the injured arena slaves.

Light broke over her face as she finally made it to the antechamber. Already, she could hear—and feel—the crowd of orcs cheering. It was impossible to tell exactly was occurring from the noise alone, but the match must have been particularly bloody to cause such a reaction.

Bilba took a deep breath and steeled her nerves, then made her way to the door ahead. It led into a small section of standing room, with a reasonable view of the arena.

It was a huge subterranean room, with vents letting in sunlight from far, far above. Frerin had once told her that this room, before it had been mauled and degraded into the sickening thing it was today, that it had been the grandest and finest room in all of Erebor. Behind the throne room of course. It had once entertained kings and queens, dignitaries and nobles from all over Arda as a majestic dining hall adjoined to a fine ballroom. Bilba couldn’t imagine how this cavern could ever be welcoming.

The orcs had filled the floor with many tons of dirt from the tunnel excavations, and added viewing stands and railings, as well as converted many of the side rooms into antechambers designed to house the armories and slaves preparing to fight.

As always, the stench hit her first. Her nose wrinkled at the vile odor of orcs, only amplified by the sweating crowd. And there, barely discernable underneath the rest of the smell, was the sharp copper tang of blood in the air. Not orc blood, which smelled corrupted in an unnatural way, but dwarven or human blood.

At this realization, she jerked her head up, panic-laced adrenaline shooting through her system. If she could already detect the blood, had they already started the slave fights?

She could feel herself despairing. She’d thought she’d arrived well in time to witness the end of the orc fights. Hurriedly, she elbowed her way through the small crowd of slaves surrounding her to get to the edge. None of them resisted, unwilling to cause a scene when the orcs were high on the sights of bloodshed. Her hand on the railing, she looked into the large expanse of dirt-covered floor. _There!_ To the far side of the arena, two figures were battling.

A human and a dwarf, if her eyes didn’t deceive her. They were both skilled warriors and the clash of metal was drowned beneath the roars of the crowd. Her heart plummeted. They had begun the slave fights earlier than she’d expected.

Frerin could already have come and gone without her knowing. She leaned a bit farther over the railing, trying to get a better glimpse of the spar. But they were too far away for her to correctly discern any features.

And so she waited for the better part of a few minutes, nervous energy causing tremors to race through her body. Until the human managed to pry off the helmet of the dwarf with a lucky strike, and the tremors were replaced by frozen stillness. She caught a glance of dirty blond hair on the dwarf’s head.

Hair exactly the same color as Frerin’s.

Almost unwittingly, her fingers flew to her own hair, where there resided a bead, meticulously carved and hidden in her dense curls.

Her breath caught in her throat, refusing to move past the massive lump. The two warriors were moving closer to where she watched now, the dwarf retreating strategically along the wall, his back still to her.

She could tell that the human was winning, and was now toying with his prey to gain the favor of the audience. A closer inspection revealed a bloody gash down the thigh of the dwarf, likely the factor that caused the sudden upheaval of the previously evenly-matched fighters.

They fought a deadly dance of cold steel; blades flashing in the light, dirt flying up from skids. Bilba watched, but barely registered anything.

Finally, the dwarf, very much weakened by the thigh wound, stumbled backwards. The human lunged at the opportunity, thrusting his sword into the chest of his unguarded foe. A scream tore out of Bilba as the dwarf fell.

She heard the thud as his body fell limp to the ground, the sound forever ingrained in her memory, right along with the raucous cheers from the audience.

She couldn’t tear her eyes from the body. But with the dwarf now flat, she was able to make out his face. Deep in her chest, a sob built up.

But it was a sob of relief, not of grief. All that blond hair and she’d thought… Bilba stopped herself from even thinking it.

She’d thought she would be alone again.

All those years she’d been longing and waiting for someone to come and overthrow the orcs like Frerin said they would.

All those years where the only constant in her life had been Frerin, always there to make sure she lived the best childhood she could, considering the circumstances.

A brief lull settled over the crown, an interval during which the audience waited for the next fight. To Bilba, it wasn’t silence. It was a prelude to agony; the calm before the storm, filled with an overbearing sense of foreboding.

A tingle echoed in the back of her mind, her Gift alerting her to something. Bilba frowned.

It wasn’t like her magic normally was, warm and filled with the promise of growth and healing.

No, this was from the mountain, something she’d usually never be able to feel without Frerin acting as a conduit. But even this wasn’t exactly what she was used to.

It felt more like… a warning… and an apology?

Bilba shut her eyes, trying to pinpoint the feeling and isolate it. But it skittered out of reach, ducking behind intangible thoughts and never leaving behind more than an inkling of a message.

While the slightly quieted atmosphere had contributed to her ability to concentrate, so the inverse was true as well, and when the deafening swell of the crowd rose again, she found it impossible to do anything more.

And then Frerin was shoved out of the side door, into the arena.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Sweat trickled down Frerin’s back, an uncomfortable result of the putrid and stagnant air in the antechamber.

He shifted his grip on the unwieldy knives he held. They were predictably, like all the orcish weapons he’d seen: poorly crafted and prone to failing when needed most. They weren’t identical, but compatible enough to be used together. One was longer and slightly slimmer, while the other was shorter. Frerin noted yet again how frustratingly dull they were. He may as well have been given a pair of clubs. 

The poor weaponry didn’t help his chances. Neither did the lack of any kind of armor. It had been years since he’d last hefted a weapon. Frerin clenched his jaw, the hold on the knives bringing back vivid memories of the Battle of Azanulbizar.

But he quickly dismissed the memories, banishing them to the back of his mind. He wasn’t willing to allow himself to be so easily distracted during such a vital time.

He’d made sure to keep up his hand-to-hand skills, mostly because he needed Bilba to be able to defend herself when he wasn’t around to do so. Not that he ever intended that scenario to ever occur.

Having already examined his weapons and subtly twining a few strips of cloth around the handles to make them more sturdy, Frerin focused instead to the door in front of him. He idly noticed that, underneath the scratches and scrapes which had accumulated over the years, the Durin crest peeked through.

It certainly wasn’t obvious, and he’d likely only been able to recognize it due to a lifetime of being surrounded with it. Well, a lifetime before all of _this._

Somewhat disturbingly, the deep gouges in the door were haphazardly splattered with what looked to be dried blood. Undoubtedly the result of generations of slaves attempting to escape their fate, he thought grimly.

The mutilated crest brought back even more memories, memories he wasn’t willing to deal with. Memories of happier days, of roaming through these very halls, though they were cleaner and a paradise compared to the state they were in now.

Not for the first time, and wished keenly for the vambraces and mail armor he’d lost at Moria, before being taken here. But wishing wasn’t going to get him anywhere, so he straightened his stance, adjusted his grip, and forced himself to run through anything and everything he could remember about dual-wielding knives.

Frerin ran through the forms, envisioning his movements. But he didn’t visibly move, knowing it would be seen as a sign of aggression to the orcs behind him. He’d much prefer to enter the arena alive rather than as a corpse.

In the midst of mentally rehearsing stances, his thoughts circled back to Bilba. Would she be watching? He knew she was no stranger to the arena fights—she was the one tasked with dealing with grievous wounds dealt to orcs whom Azog would rather let live. It wasn’t a pretty job, but it was her life.

But it was one thing treating orcs, and another to witness him participating in a fight to the death.

He resolved that it wouldn’t be his death.

Whatever it took.

And then the cheers began anew and the door slid open, and the orcs behind Frerin shoved him out.

The light, one of the brightest places in all of Erebor, blinded him for a moment, searing into his eyes.

The dirt underneath his feet shifted slightly, making for a packed and steady footing.

Behind him, the door shut roughly, a final toll marking his entrance to the arena.

The crowd, already cheering from the newly-announced battle, grew deafening with his entrance.

Without consciously thinking, he brought up his knives and fell into a defensive stance, unsure what was going to come at him. He wouldn’t put it past the orcs to have an opponent—or ten—already waiting for him.

Seeing no immediate threat on the ground level around him, Frerin moved his gaze meticulously over the crowd, analyzing for any possible threat. The orcs did so love surprises.

A quick glance revealed no obvious threat, so quickly backed away from the door behind him to stand roughly a dozen paces in front of an unbroken stretch of wall. He’d seen more than one slave slaughtered by another orc or slave bursting from behind to catch them by surprise. He wasn’t about to let the same thing happen to him.

He was a good distance from the wall, close enough to use it to push off of if need be, and far enough to have enough room to move.

A distant clang pealed from the opposite end of the arena. Though it was barely audibly over the crowd, Frerin whipped his head around, settling into a calm.

He hadn’t fought with weapons against a designated opponent since Moria, and it showed. But that didn’t mean he was completely defenseless. Certainly not.

Even so, it was a struggle to settle into that mental place of cool, calm, collected analysis and reflexive movement. But he managed all the same.

A door opposite him, one of many lining the sides of the arena, screeched open slowly, telling of hinges that badly needed oiling. A dark-haired dwarf walked out.

The opposing dwarrow lifted his weapon, a massive battle-axe, and roared to the audience. They cheered back, even louder than before.

Frerin blanched, feeling a sense of premature defeat.

Azog must really want him dead.

There was no other reason why he would be pitted against this dwarf. A healthy, trained, and well-fed arena slave was certain to best even the greatest warrior after a few years of slavery. Frerin tried not to think too hard about it. Before, he had been one of the dwarves’ top warriors, always volunteering to help drill new trainees and pass on his formidable knowledge in the art of war.

The dwarf ahead was still stoking the audience’s enthusiasm, swinging his axe in a massive overhead circle.

Frerin felt something at the base of his skull. Something… tingling? But it wasn’t physical or tangible. Just… _there_. He shook his head.

Now was not the time to be imagining things. Instead, Frerin loosened his wrists, inscribing lazy circles in the air with the tips of his knives. He’d known immediately that they’d be of little use against that sturdy and well-crafted battle axe.

Seeing as his opponent was still occupied, Frerin took a few practice swings with his weapons, trying to regain at least a little of the muscle memory he’d had before.

And the tingling was back.

Frerin frowned, trying even harder to ignore it.

But every time he did, it seemed to compound in intensity. It wasn’t painful, though. For that much he was grateful. Just somewhat distracting at a time he couldn’t afford to be anything other than completely focused on the dwarf now headed for him.

Small clouds of dirt rose behind the footsteps of the dwarf, so powerful were his strides.

Frerin cursed. He’d been distracted and had given his opponent the first and often most important advantage. Judging by the ease with which it was carried, one swipe of that axe and he’d be without a head.

He thought back to all the times he’d sparred with Dwalin and the older dwarf’s twin battle axes. Their advantage lay in reach and leverage. He just had to find a way into the other dwarf’s guard and close enough to both render his axe a large stick and make his own knives useful.

Knowing the first strike would likely be an overhead pass, as was often the case with dwarrow axe-wielders, Frerin began to run at his adversary.

 _Damn it!_ He was noticeably out of shape from years of malnutrition. But he pushed forward and was pleased to see, as the distance between them close to a few dozen strides, the other dwarf begin to raise his axe.

Frerin let out a quick breath of relief and spun his knives around so that they faced inwards, still charging at the other dwarf. He began to raise them as if to strike, and saw his opponent unleash a feral grin, convinced that he was insane and wouldn’t last more than a few seconds.

But that’s what Frerin had intended him to think. And when the other dwarf was only a few paces away, too late to redirect the axe swing, Frerin threw his legs forward, ducked, and slid past his legs, well under the reach of the axe. And because of the introverted angle of the knives, he was able to land a shallow gash above the boot.

The dwarf bellowed in surprise and slowed down, preparing to turn around and face Frerin again.

But while the other dwarf hadn’t been expecting the move, Frerin had planned it. He had the advantage of speed and was already back on his feet before the other could respond.

Just as his opponent swiveled to face him, Frerin ran up to him, knives flipped around again and poised to strike. The axe swung with all the intention of taking off his head, but Frerin had managed to step within its reach, too close for it to be of any use.

As the dwarf swung the axe, Frerin raised his own knife, the longer of the two, and placed his arm to block the axe handle, just under where the blade attached.

He gritted his teeth as pain blossomed on his forearm where he’d taken the brunt of the blow, and again, that incessant tingle in his mind came to a crescendo.

A flicker of his own eyes to his other knife gave him away. The other dwarf followed his gaze and brought up his elbow, linking it around Frerin’s other arm and locking it in place. Though not without getting away from the blade, and Frerin carved a deep slice on the inside of the other dwarf’s upper arm.

A cry of pure rage and desperation tore out of his throat, mingling with those of the audience.

Frerin’s arm trembled under the strain of holding the axe. While he was able to compartmentalize the pain and push through it, sheer willpower wouldn’t be enough to hold out for long.

It was a good thing he wasn’t lacking in sheer willpower.

He would _not_ die today.

 _He would not die today_.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Bilba watched, frozen and helpless as Frerin and the dwarf remained locked in a stalemate, each trying to gain the upper hand. She could feel the pressure building between her temples, a headache made more prominent by the buzzing which seemed to originate near the base of her skull.

At first, she’d thought it was her magic, some possible leaking of energy from the dirt floor of the arena. But there wasn’t any life in the arena, just dirt on top of stone. And the type of energy was inconsistent with what she normally felt, feeling closer to the smooth, polished awareness of the mountain’s energy. But that was impossible: she couldn’t pick up on that energy on her own.

Her thoughts raced ever-faster, cascading in overlapping streams, moving too quickly to process one before the next came. Frerin was fighting for his life down there, and she was stuck behind some stupid rail, utterly helpless and unable to do anything.

Never before had she felt so small, so insignificant. Bilba’s hands clenched into fists, her nails digging tiny crescents into her palms. She tightened her grip, relishing the pain. It grounded her against the whirlwind of emotions threatening to overtake her in a maelstrom of panic.

She saw Frerin’s guard slip fractionally, and his adversary used the opportunity to strike, lightning quick, and Frerin was left with a steadily bleeding cut on his shoulder.

Bilba wished she could go down there herself, be a distraction, catch the other dwarf by surprise. Anything was better than staying where she was, hopelessly being out of control.

It was something she was used to, the feeling of helplessness; never being able to have control over anything. But it had nearly always been in regards to herself, and she was fine with that. But with someone else’s life on the line?

With _Frerin’s_ life on the line??

It was steadily driving her insane, robbing her of her mental stability.

If she wasn’t insane already.

And so she watched, helpless to do anything but that: watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good?   
> Bad?   
> Ehhhhh?
> 
> I know I'm evil for that cliffhanger, but I'm entirely unapologetic. oops. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!! A HUGE thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos on the last chapters!   
> I would be absolutely ecstatic if you guys left more comments! They are quite literally a tangible form of motivation


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter of a chapter this time. I've been extraordinarily busy this week and I couldn't think of a good place to stop. But there will definitely be a longer chapter next week!!

A dull thudding sound echoed through the corridor as Bilba tapped urgently on the door.

_Was Frerin alive?_

Another slave, dressed in the same rags and coated in the same perpetual layer of dust as she was, opened the door. Bilba barely spared him a glance as she entered her workplace.

It was a reasonable sized set of rooms connected to each other, each with the omnipresent stone walls encasing a set of beds. The central chamber held healing supplies; stacks of bandages and a meager few jars of herbs to be used. A few of the other rooms held their own stashes, but for the most part they were only outfitted with cots.

These were Bilba’s quarters, where she would heal any orcs and slaves who were approved to do so. Of course, it was only the mild cases she tended to in these rooms. Anything more serious and she’d need a solid connection to the earth—hence the courtyard situated just beyond the farthest room.

She hurried to make her way to the first chamber on the right, where the highest-priority patients would always be located. Unsurprisingly, it was an orc.

And though she had absolutely no desire to heal said orc, Bilba knew there was no way around it. And the sooner she finished with the so-called high priority orcs, she could figure out what had happened to Frerin.

She took a seat in a decrepit old chair by the side of the cot and began the healing process; calling on what little energy she could pull from the earth, hidden deep beneath the mountain. Fortunately, it was only a light graze to the abdomen and required little effort or concentration.

She continued on this way for a while longer, stopping into various rooms and always healing the orcs. It passed in a blur, the daily monotony blending everything together in a mush of time. The interminable waiting was only augmented by her worry over Frerin.  
Back in the arena, she had watched the rest of the fight, barely breathing. The stalemate had lasted for only a few more seconds, before the Frerin had stumbled backwards, losing his grip on the other dwarf’s axe.

It was only by pure luck that the other dwarf lost his balance as well, and managed to land directly on top of Frerin’s extended blade.

Frerin had ended up unconscious, his opponent bleeding out on top of him.

Or at least she thought he was unconscious. It was nearly impossible to tell at the distance, and she’d drawn on what little of her gift she could use while surrounded by stone in order to increase her vision.

Frerin had gotten lucky.

_What about next time?_

Next time he might not be so lucky. And where would she be if that happened?

Alone.

_Alone_.

The word hung in her mind, somehow the concrete basis of all her irrational fears—thanks to the orcs.

A favorite form of punishment of theirs seemed to be complete isolation. And not just being alone, but rather being sealed off in a small dungeon made specially by the orcs. Deprived of all light, deprived of food and water, and deprived of feeling. Alone, and isolated with nothing but your own thoughts.

Bilba fought off a shudder building at the base of her spine. She wouldn’t be alone because Frerin would be okay. She’d heal him and then he’d—

He’d what?

He would be sent right back into the arena for the next round of competition. Frerin was completely expendable. They could always find another dwarf with the stone Gift to help her heal.

These invasive thoughts filled Bilba’s mind, almost causing her to miss the door to the next room.

She loosed a breath, took a brief moment to wipe her hands on her garments, and stepped inside.

There were three cots in this room, and in one of them lay a still, bloodstained dwarf.

_Frerin!_

She involuntarily froze, taking in the copious amounts of blood covering his still form. It was only because she’d seen the fight itself that she knew it wasn’t his blood.

Bilba absently ran her fingertips over her cracked nails, taking in the sight before her.

“I need a bucket of water in here, quickly now,” she called to the central room. And somehow, she managed to keep her voice from showing her concern. Bilba had long since learned to hide any emotion at all, instead shoving it down as deep as she could and letting a mask of solid ice fall into place. 

It was the only reason she’d survived this long.

Presently, an older dwarf brought in water. Bilba frowned as he sloshed water over the floor, but only pursed her lips and took the bucket.

She leaned over and grabbed a small rag from underneath the cot and began to wash the blood off Frerin. The water in the bucket stained red and ran disturbingly through her fingers.

She suppressed a shudder and continued her work, blocking out everything except the dwarf in front of her.

By the time he was relatively clean, the air was filled with the coppery tang of blood. But he looked so much better, and Bilba was relieved to see that the only noticeable wound was a gash on his upper arm.

It wasn’t deep, but it was sizeable enough to merit healing with her Gift. She shifted in her chair and sat up straight, reaching out her arms to place them on his chest.

Only to be interrupted by a wide-eyed human slave bursting through the doorway.

“Bilba,” she said, trying to catch her breath, “the orcs are looking for you!”

Bilba froze, deliberately ignoring the cold fear gripping her heart.

 _It’s just a high-priority orc that needs to be healed,_ she told herself. 

But out loud, she asked, “When did you hear this?” When the girl hesitated, she repeated the question, more forcefully this time. “When did you hear this, Bree?”

“Just now,” offered the girl, biting her lip. “I heard them down the corridor.”

Bilba was used to being summoned by the orcs; it was nothing out of the ordinary. Because of her Gift, she was highly sought after for anything from a minorly inconveniencing cut to a life-threatening wound. She was the easy solution—and much preferrable to a long healing process.

But there was something about Bree’s demeanor. She was fidgety and acting skittish, refusing to meet Bilba’s questioning gaze for more than a few seconds at a time. Bilba found herself focusing on Bree’s feet; shifting and never staying still. It was obvious that she’d rather be anywhere but there.

Likely because of the approaching orcs.

Knowing the procedure, she cast one last glance at Frerin, confident he was stable for the time being, and stood up, hands clasped behind her back, and lowered her head. Not too much longer passed before footsteps came from down the hall. Bree had long since disappeared.

The door flew open and Bilba started at the sheer number of orcs present. There were at lease ten. Normally when she was called, there would be two or three. Clearly this was a different occasion.

“Come with us. You’re needed,” one of them grunted.

Obediently, she followed, feeling very uncomfortable at the way they surrounded her.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Bilba fought against a vague sense of unease. However, it refused to wane and instead began to increase, heightening her paranoia. The stained and uneven walls did nothing to ease her worry, and neither did their gradually decreasing width.

But it was when the stone walls gave way to dirt tunnels, reinforced only by wooden slats, that Bilba began to sense how wrong the whole situation was.

She’d never been this far underground, usually staying within reach of the healing wing—which had its own balcony, enabling her to feel the warm gaze of the sun upon her face. This tunnel however, grew damp and tight, lit only by torches placed sporadically upon the walls.

They passed a fork in the path, and when Bilba craned her neck, she could see the telltale signs of a collapsed tunnel.

There was a reason the dwarves had never dug this deep before the fall of Erebor.

A sudden vibration from the floor made Bilba’s knees buckle. She gasped and lunged to steady herself on the wall; a violent surge of claustrophobia seizing her. Even most of the orcs looked unsteady.

She waited for the rumble to pass, shutting her eyes tightly and trying not to panic. She wondered if the rest of Erebor could feel the shaking.

“Damn beast,” she heard one of the orcs say.

After the ground had stilled once more, she was pried away from the wall and shoved roughly back on her feet.

She wanted to go back. She wanted to see the sun, to go out on that blessed, _blessed,_ balcony.

But she had no choice but to march onward, flanked on all sides by orcs, moving ever forwards and deeper into the mountain.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

After what seemed to be ages of walking, they finally entered a vast cavern. Some time back, to Bilba’s eternal gratitude, the dirt tunnel had been traded for a slightly larger stone passage. It seemed that there was a very large system of caves beneath the mountain—far deeper than had ever been explored before.

She gazed in awe at the enormous stone columns hanging from the ceiling and emerging from the ground. They appeared to be large icicles, though somehow made from stone. If she listened closely, she could hear the steady _drip… drip…_ of water falling from them.

But an extremely loud noise broke through her observations, nearly causing her to fall over with fright. She crouched down as much as she could with her escort of orcs, surreptitiously casting glances about with wide eyes.

_What had made that noise?_

It had echoed throughout the chamber, reverberating off of the columns and hitting her like a physical blow.

She really wanted to be back on her balcony.

The orcs, however, had no such reservations and kept moving closer to the source of the noise. She wrung her hands together, dimly noting the clammy sweat forming on them.

As they approached the other side of the room, Bilba became suddenly aware of a depression in the rock she’d missed before. It was hidden from all but one angle, and even then wouldn’t be visible until very close.

But it wasn’t a depression—it was an entire corridor! Bilba hid her surprise when they entered, keeping her head low, but always maintaining an awareness of her surroundings. Unlike the previous underground corridors, this one wasn’t claustrophobic and tight, but open and well-lit. Instead of sputtering torches, there were oil lamps mounted regularly onto the wall.

They walked for a while longer until they reached a door. One of the orcs stepped forward and rapped on it. After a brief delay, it swung open soundlessly.

Out stepped a pale orc.

Not just any pale orc, Bilba noted in dismay, but Azog himself. He leered down at her, sneering in distaste. She found herself unable to tear her eyes away from his gaze.

“I thought you would’ve learned more respect after our last…. encounter,” he said at last.

An involuntary shiver struck her and she immediately lowered her head. Though she couldn’t see it, she could _sense_ his twisted smile.

“Bring her this way,” he snarled, turning swiftly away from her and striding through the door.

She followed, entering the massive second cavern, larger than any underground space she’d ever seen before—larger than even the arena. But she wondered what in the name of Illuvatar could necessitate her presence down here.

She soon found her answer.

There, across the massive cavern and in one of the smaller caves branching off, locked behind bars, lay a dragon.

_Smaug_ , her brain supplied, _for who else could it be?_ This must’ve been the cause of that quake from earlier. Perhaps he’d rammed into the ceiling.

Frerin had told her stories of the great dragon, about how he’d swept in and decimated Erebor in a single day.

But this didn’t look like the dragon of his tales. He was much smaller, nowhere near the size she’d imagined. And instead of the fiery red and invulnerable scales, she only saw wilted scales, a sickly grey derivation of the ruby red they were supposed to be.

She continued walking towards the great beast, though she wasn’t sure she could even feel her legs anymore. Her mouth had gone dry.

Out of all the things she could’ve been expecting, this _definitely_ wasn’t it. She’d long since assumed, along with essentially the entire population of Erebor, that the dragon had somehow been killed by the orcs when they’d taken over.

But somehow, it was lying in front of her, not even a stone’s throw away.

They were close now, and Azog turned around to gauge her reaction. He wasn’t disappointed—her mouth had fallen open slightly and her eyes were abnormally wide. Even so, it was a subdued reaction from someone who’d just learned that a dragon had been living beneath them this whole time.

The pale orc turned away from her again to face the dragon. “Beast!” he bellowed, startling her.

His voice carried strangely through the cavern, holding a stronger and fuller quality than it would normally. It echoed and reverberating, lasting far longer than it should have.

The dragon stirred and uncoiled. In the firelight, Bilba could see far more clearly. And she now understood why she’d been called down here.

Around his neck, limbs, and the base of his wings were huge iron shackles, connected to heavy chains and anchored into the wall. They were rusted and crudely made, seeming to be just barely holding together. But around them were large and bloody scabs, along with an abundance of scar tissue. She couldn’t imagine what kind of abuse the orcs had done in order to wear through the scales of a dragon.

Knowing Azog, he’d likely ordered them removed in those areas for the express purposes of causing more pain.

Judging by his actions, Smaug was anything but well. Even to the untrained eye, the drooping demeanor and swollen scabs were worrying, but she noted the greyish tinge around the wounds, appearing like dying embers, signifying serious infection. In his current state, she couldn’t find it probable that he’d last much longer.

“Heal it,” barked Azog, confirming her suspicions. “We need him healthy.”

Biting her lip and struggling to keep her composure, she inched closer to the bars. A low grumble coming from the dragon made her pause, but she clenched her jaw and continued. The distance felt uncrossable, between the orcs waiting behind her and the trapped dragon in front of her.

Twenty feet…

Ten feet…

Five feet…

Smaug’s eye snapped open, startling her so badly that she emitted a squeak and tumbled backwards onto the ground, falling off to the side and into a shadow. This rendered her nearly invisible from Smaug’s point of view. Apparently the dragon found this amusing, because he huffed once, short and quick. Bilba remained frozen on the ground, staring into the eye almost twice as large as her face.

A voice echoed in her head, **Come, now, step into the light.**

It was a voice far deeper than she’d expected, filled with malice and corruption.

_And it was in her head._

She reeled at the implications. She hadn’t heard the dragon speak out loud, nor seen him move, and the orcs hadn’t reacted. And yet, Smaug stared in her direction with slitted eyes, seemingly waiting for a reply.

 _How had he done that?_ Perhaps it was something only dragons could do.

“I’m…” she began, but her voice faltered and cracked. Bilba was trembling now at the confrontation, and swallowed. “I’m here to help you, O Smaug the Stupendous.” She cringed. That sounded fake even to her.

But the great dragon only stared, his wide eye unblinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun DUUUUUUNNN  
> Who expected Smaug?  
> Anybody?  
> And yeah, I'm evil again for making it a cliffie, but I honestly couldn't think of a better place to end it. Everywhere else would've been awkward and just not flowed well.  
> Let me know what you think in the comments!!  
> And a HUGE thank you to everyone who's left kudos and comments on previous chapters! They really do fuel my motivation!


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a longer chapter than last week as promised!!  
> Again, this story is un-betad, so I apologize for any mistakes I may have made.  
> BUT anyhoooo, this chapter has quite a bit more happening than the last one, so I hope you enjoy!!

Bilba stared at the massive dragon crouched in front of her. That eye was locked on hers, rendering her own gaze immobile. She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat was so dry that only a dull rasp came out.

Bilba swallowed harshly and tried again.

“Smaug, the Greatest of Calamities, the tales fall utterly short of your enormity.” She was rambling now, words spewing out of her mouth before she could properly think them through.

The dragon twisted his head to meet her gaze head-on. And even though it was painfully obvious that he was thin and only a mere shadow of his former glory, muscle rippled throughout his frame when he moved. Then for the first time, he opened his mouth and spoke.

“Do you think flattery will keep you alive?”

Bilba tried to comprehend the words. She really did. But those razor-sharp teeth were rather terrifyingly distracting, and unfortunately took up the majority of her focus. It took her far longer than she’d like to admit to actually register what he’d said.

“No,” she merely replied, her voice small and quiet. She swallowed again. “But I am being truthful when I say I am here to help you.” She paused, unsure of how to continue, and the resulting silence could have been made of solid stone. “I can heal you with my Gift.”

The dragon looked unimpressed. “It has been many years since I have been fully healed. What changes? Why now?’ he snarled, glaring venomously at the orcs, the flames reflecting off his eyes.

Bilba was saved from having to reply by Azog’s voice cutting her off.

“It’s more useful to us alive than dead,” he said from behind them. “We have use for it in the upcoming weeks. Now heal it or I’ll kill you. Slowly.”

Bilba had become very used to death threats like this. They occurred nearly every day, just another reality of life as a slave in Erebor. But something different rang true in his words. She guessed he actually had the authority to order her death. Normally the orcs enjoyed threatening the slaves, but knew they themselves would be punished if they carried out their threat on the hobbit girl with the healing powers.

She looked back to Smaug, and realized her task was more daunting than she’d originally thought. In order to heal the dragon, she needed to see the wounds more clearly. She had to actually touch him.

She wondered momentarily if touching the great dragon would be the last thing she ever did.

And it all depended on how close they were to the soil of the earth—how difficult it would be for her to draw energy in order to actually perform the healing.

“I need to…” she began, “I need to touch you to begin the healing.”

 **And why would I let you do that?** The voice echoed in her head again, this time louder and snarling with anger. Smaug stirred, eventually standing upright and beginning to pad closer to the bars, though Bilba could tell that even that slow motion pained him.

“Do you want to your wounds to remain infected and die?!” she burst out, fear making her words taking on a slightly higher pitch than usual.

 **I will not stoop any lower than I have already been forced,** the dragon concluded, his voice deep and quivering with rage.

Bilba knew she was at a stalemate. She couldn’t step between the bars and heal him or he’d surely kill her with one snap of those jaws. And she couldn’t just do nothing: she had no doubts that Azog would make good on his promise.

“Just let me try, please,” she begged him, desperation settling in at her lack of choices.

“I’ve already given my answer,” bellowed the dragon, lunging at the bars in a massive leap, teeth spread wide and aimed at her.

Bilba screamed and threw herself back, her clothes catching beneath her as she skidded across the hard stone floor. The rattle of chains shook throughout the cavern as they pulled taut, effectively stopping Smaug midair, and he crashed to the ground with a great shuddering _thud_ that shook the walls _._ But still he snarled at them, those teeth appearing even larger with the closer proximity.

She lay frozen, breathing heavily and unable to move.

Behind her, Azog roared in the black speech, unconditional authority lacing his voice, and the orcs she’d travelled with ran off to the sides of the cell. She noticed again the massive cranks embedded in the walls, glinting malevolently in the firelight. The orcs rushed over and began to heave on them, and the clanking of chains filled her ears again as the chains inside the cell began to tighten.

Smaug spat and snarled at them, writhing in unadulterated fury. But the chains continued to pull, and he was soon forced into the middle of the cell, trapped in the middle by chains pulled taut on both sides, forced motionless and unable to budge.

“Go heal the cursed beast,” Azog ordered her.

And though now it was technically safe for her to slip between the bars, she couldn’t help but fear the consequences if she did.

“Now,” muttered the pale orc behind her, his voice dangerous and gutteral.

Bilba swallowed hard and picked herself off the ground. On shaking legs, she made her way to the very far right of the bars. She grasped one of the metal rods, blew out a breath, and slid smoothly between them, into the enclosure.

It felt… different inside, somehow. The firelight turned downright menacing its gleam taking on a horrible quality. She began to walk towards Smaug, tethered and immobile in the middle. Unexpectedly, a tiny grain of sympathy welled up inside her.

To be contained so far underground, chained and kept for sport, abused so horribly—it was a existence she wouldn’t wish on anybody. At least she and most of the other slaves were never chained like this.

Bilba shook her head and slowly, ever so slowly, crept closer to his side. It was safer than approaching from the front, where those teeth were. Smaug blew out a great shuddering breath and she flinched, but a sideways glance at Azog kept her moving.

Finally, she was so close she could reach out her hand and touch the rough scales. Now that she was nearer, she could see just how bad the damage was around the manacles. They seemed to be actually _grown into_ the soft tissue where the scales had worn away. A small crease appeared in her forehead. Bilba had seen many horrendous wounds—results of the arena, the aftermath of beatings, neglect—but never had she seen the evidence of someone being shackled for so long that the metal had literally _grown into the skin_.

She supposed it was simply too much of a risk to ever take them off.

Bilba stretched out her hand and held it just above the dragon’s scales. He too had stilled, and they both stood there in waiting, until she finally let her hand fall.

His scales were warm, but it was the unhealthy heat of a raging fever. Bilba didn’t know what she’d expected, but somehow this just seemed anticlimactic. Nothing happened, with the exception of tension palpable in the air.

Now it was time to see how much energy she could pull from the earth. She suspected it would be easier to heal down here since she didn’t have to go through all of that rock. And she’d travelled through a dirt tunnel on the way—how hard could it be?

So she drew upon her Gift. As she’d thought, it was relatively easy to draw power into herself. But it was another thing entirely to make it do what she wanted it to do.

Bilba tried to direct it into the dragon, but it just didn’t _want_ to. It was a similar experience to healing the orcs, but exponentially worse. She sensed something so profoundly corrupted inside of Smaug, to the point where she almost couldn’t differentiate between the darkness and the living being.

He seemed to be actively resisting her energy.

No… it wasn’t Smaug, it was something inside of him—a part of him—but not Smaug himself.

She dimly registered the dragon straining, distressed beneath her hand. Still she pushed the energy, harder.

She was used to healing orcs and the added strain, but this was different. Her Gift and the energy she drew from was pure and untainted. And it seemed to be semiconscious. Hence why it refused to cooperate.

She focused on the intangible stain, directing all her energy towards it. For a brief moment, her magic felt like it was being _absorbed_.

But then it absorbed her, sucking her into itself like liquid down a drain.

Bilba caught brief flashes of imagery as in a dream. She was still very much physically in the cavern, but her mind was transported elsewhere.

She flailed, discombobulated and utterly disoriented in this immense maelstrom of….

Bilba didn’t know what it was.

A flash of darkness, then light, then darkness again, an all-encompassing void and abyss of nothingness. More flashes—like lightning, but broader. A tall being, as fair as he was dark, rose colossal in her field of view, chanting in a liquid tongue unfamiliar to her. Other dragons, one obsidian and larger than anything she’d ever seen, and one unwinged with a yellow-orange eye staring directly at her, dominating the earth and the sky between them. The sight of them was harrowing, her very being repulsed at the abnormal display of power.

Fire shot from their maws, a raging inferno that consumed all it touched, burning the terrain into a desecrated wasteland.

The eye of the second dragon morphed, flames curling and searing the edges as it rose, taller and taller, into a fell beacon of pure darkness, though it still shone with an evil light, flickering over a bleak and desolate land bereft of any life. Over the horizon, drums beat a chilling rhythm, each pound reverberating through her body with horrible force. The noise compounded and multiplied, growing with each passing second and blocking out everything else with its rhythm of _wrongness_.

She threw her hands over her ears, desperate to get away from what seemed to be the very heartbeat of death itself. It clashed in discordance, such an unnatural sound, yet somehow so fitting for the unnatural land where nothing green lived. 

All this she Bilba saw, and she found herself unable to pull herself away from the horrible images. She began to draw energy furiously, from any source she could find. The earth and the soil responded.

And to her surprise, so did the stone.

But the life-force from the mountain didn’t contribute to her own energy, but instead acted as a sort of anchor. It pulled her mind back from the desolate visions with a sharp pull, tethering her once again to the present.

Shaken, but finally back in control of her own mind, she quickly withdrew from the core of corruption she’d been working on. The change was immediate, Smaug feeling like a living being again instead of a concentrated heart so corrupted it could’ve been a portal to the Dark One himself.

So she took a steadying breath, placed herself in a state of utter focus, and tried a different approach, attempting to heal one specific spot, the left front limb, instead of risking _that_ again by healing from within. 

It was like trying to heal a rock—unyielding and unaccepting. But eventually, something gave way, the formerly sealed areas opening like floodgates, and her magic flowed freely again.

She forced the energy on the infection, a different—and more natural—type of corruption.

Using this approach, she was able to purge the infected areas with relative ease, as well as marginally tend to any open wounds. But for some reason, due to the same strange and partially-removed block from before, she couldn’t do anything more.

At least the dragon wasn’t in danger of dying from the infection at the present moment.

Bilba withdrew her hand, noticing that the scales were slightly cooler than before. There were beads of sweat dripping from her forehead. She brushed her arm over them and wiped them away, still reeling from the visions and flashes she’d experienced.

Sometime during the process, Smaug had passed out and was now lying motionless on the floor of the enclosure.

“He’s in no danger of dying.” She hated how her voice shook in an uncontrollable tremor that betrayed her weakness. “But I can’t do any more right now,” she told Azog, making her way slowly out of the cell.

Azog grunted.

“If I’m to fully heal him, I need to have Frerin with me. I can’t draw enough energy from this place to do what I need,” she continued, unsure of how he would react. Bilba knew that the only reason she was able to pull out of that _thing_ was because of the energy she’d drawn from the stone. But that specific mode of drawing energy had never happened before, and she didn’t want to rely on being able to do it again. She needed Frerin there to conduct that energy to her. It was logistical, really.

The pale orc muttered something guttural in the black speech, his nostrils flaring in barely repressed rage. She quickly lowered her gaze.

“You will come back down tomorrow with the dwarf and finish healing it.” He snapped, curling his lips at her in distaste.

Bilba knew she was lucky he didn’t kill her on the spot.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Higher up in the mountain, Bree glanced behind her, searching the stone corridor to make sure nobody had followed her. The wide halls were empty, but she waited a while longer to be sure no footsteps could be heard either. Satisfied, she lifted her hand and beat a complex series of knocks upon the wooden door.

After a few moments, it swung inwards to reveal the hideous face of a pale orc.

Bolg, son of Azog.

Bree stepped quietly into the room, her steps light and wary, ready to dash out at any moment if need be. The orc reached over to shut the door, and she watched the meager beam of light from the hallway disappear in a single, damning movement. The room took on a darker nature.

“There hasn’t been much to report this past week,” she began, mentally cursing every deity that had put her in this position. “Just the usual activity. Hrozm and Irmaz killed another dwarf in the mines for not working fast enough. There’s still quite a bit of discontent among the slaves after the public beatings two weeks ago. And some orc guards also took the healer, Bilba, somewhere deep inside the mountain.”

Bolg glanced at her, his face unreadable. “Anything else?”

“Nothing of consequence,” she replied, concise, as always, with her words.

But Bolg questioned her further on each minor event she’d mentioned, intent on knowing every specific facet of every situation in the mountain.

“See that you bring more next week,” Bolg practically spat at her.

“It will be done.” Her words were flat and dull, a physical manifestation of the turmoil she faced.

A pregnant silence dominated the room. Bree resisted the urge to fidget. She had learned long ago to never reveal the restlessness of her mind.

Finally, Bolg spoke, “Yes.”

Bree infinitesimally shifted in relief and moved to exit the room. Bolg strode forward and stopped her, saying, “if you don’t bring better information next time, it won’t be so pretty. For either of you.”

Bree bit the inside of her check, but only nodded sharply. She slipped out of the room, hating herself for every word she had said with every fiber in her body. Her conscience raged, silenced only by the burning determination that she’d kill them all someday. Still, she hated herself for it.

But she knew it was the only way.

“The only way” _,_ she whispered.

There was nobody around to hear.

Bree continued to walk down the hallway, numb and unfeeling. The few windows situated in the walls provided a few sporadic squares of light upon the floor, upon which she lingered.

Oh, how things would have been easier if she had stayed where she was supposed to. That stupid, foolhardy decision.

She should’ve known she would never be able to escape that life.

The sun was warm on her face, evoking painful memories of the outside: rolling green hills, massive green trees, and sunlight, shining from the horizon.

Images and sensations she didn’t think she’d ever see again.

Bree continued to pad through the stony mountain. She’d just left Bolg’s quarters in the upper, more private wing of Erebor, and so she strode unhindered.

She relished the rare moment of silence until footsteps and voices became perceptible from around the corner ahead.

Reacting on instinct, she ducked behind a pillar and pressed herself flat against the wall. She barely breathed as they walked past.

Snippets of gruff conversation in the graveled black speech assailed her ears. She wasn’t fluent, but she’d picked up enough in the years she’d been enslaved to understand the general meaning.

In the few snatches of discussion she was fortunate enough to hear, she picked up a few words—something about Mirkwood.

Bree shrugged, careful to remain completely silent. Just a little more information to bring to Bolg next week.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

“Ten,” Thorin ground out, closing the door behind him perhaps a bit too harshly. “Ten dwarves.”

Dis looked up. “So few?” she asked, brow furrowed in consternation, a heavy feeling beginning to grow in her stomach.

Thorin nodded once, sharply. “I’ve tried everything. Nobody else is willing to come with us.” He rubbed his face, letting out a heavy sigh and grappling with the day’s events.

“Give it more time, Thorin,” said Dis, trying her best to salvage the situation.

Thorin straightened, fire in his eyes and steel in his spine. “More time?” he spluttered, indignant at the suggestion. “I’ve given them months!” He fell into the chair next to the fire, exhaustion etched into his features. “Months with which they have done absolutely nothing.”

Dis closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them with new determination surfacing in their depths. “What is your goal, Thorin?” she tilted her head at a slight angle, one eyebrow elegantly arched.

Thorin stared. “All this you already know.” A dangerous spark kindled in his words.

“But I would have you repeat it,” Dis prodded. It would do him good to reiterate his words, to refocus his attention on the true matter of importance.

A muscle flickered in Thorin’s jaw. “To retake Erebor,” he finally spoke. “So that we may live no longer as exiles, scraping out a meager living from these hills.” He tensed, then stood, and there was authority in his posture, the bearing of a king. “So that no dwarfling need go to bed hungry or cry for their fallen parents.” Thorin stopped his pacing and stared into the fire. “So that we have a home to call our own.”

A tiny flicker of a smile twitched on Dis’ lips. This was the Thorin she knew, the brother she loved so dearly. This was a king who could retake an empire.

“But why do they not come?”

Dis gazed at Thorin. He was still, fists clenched by his sides. “They are afraid,” she said. “Afraid of what more they have to lose.”

Thorin still looked immersed in his thoughts. When he finally turned to his sister, there was something more in his features. “But look what they stand to gain, should we succeed,” he waved a hand through the air, a gesture of turbulence.

“Thorin, you’ve built them an economy, a tolerable way of life. And it might not be Erebor, but it is working.” She stepped closer, resting a hand on his shoulder and silently conveying strength upon him. “They don’t want to risk what you’ve built. Every dwarf here in Ered Luin has lost something, someone.”

Thorin’s face turned hard again.

“They need proof,” Dis continued. “Proof that their faith in you would not be misplaced.”

“What more can I give them?” Thorin said bitterly, utterly at a loss. “We need more dwarves to retake Erebor, and no more will come!” He swiveled to face her. “They might as well be made from stone, for all the use my people are to us.”

Dis looked up sharply, an idea beginning to form. “Thorin—,” she began.

But he ignored her call, continuing, “Am I to be unable to help my people?”

“Thorin—,” Dis tried again, and was again cut off.

“Do they have so little faith? Will I—,”

“THORIN!” thankfully, he seemed to hear her this time. “Stone!” she said, her eyes bright. “That’s what you need!”

At Thorin’s blank look, Dis went on. “Take those ten dwarves with you to Erebor and retrieve the stone—the _Arkenstone_!”

Understanding dawned on his face. “The Arkenstone,” he echoed, reverence in his tone.

“Yes. Once you have that precious stone, the symbol of the ruling power of the House of Durin, it will be easy to rally the dwarves.”

“And one stone is much easier to reclaim than an entire mountain,” Thorin saw the simple brilliance in the idea.

“And not only is it important for the symbolism in itself, but it will prove that you can get in and out of the mountain _and_ past Smaug to retrieve it.”

Thorin nodded, only barely twitching at the mention of the dragon that had stolen the mountain. He strode over to his table, papers scattered everywhere in a show of organized chaos. He began to rifle through them, checking and referencing uncountable sheets filled with numbers, names, designs.

His voice turned almost inaudible, muttering to himself in preparation. “…..maybe Nori…”

“Maybe Nori for what?” Dis asked, almost absentmindedly. Thorin stacked the papers and turned back to her, determination and resolve glinting in his eyes.

“We need a burglar.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo??  
> Thoughts? Theories? Ideas?  
> Please, please, PLEASE, let me know what you think in the comments!!


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I have absolutely no excuse for how late this is. I've been trying to update every Saturday buuuuuut we can all see how that worked out. I just got really really busy with an insane amount of schoolwork, and finals are coming up too.  
> Oh and standardized test prep. There goes three hours of my Saturday every week :(
> 
> Well anyway I hope you all aren't too mad at the huge delay, and I can't promise the quality of this chapter (I may or may not have written it after midnight) but I hope you enjoy!!

Bilba approached the door with still-trembling and clammy fingers. She hastily wiped them on her clothes, then grasped the doorknob and pushed.

An unconscious tension dissipated from her body as she saw Frerin sitting up on the bed next to Bree, who was carefully wrapping the gash on his upper arm. Bilba found the barest hint of a smile reaching her lips at the knowledge that Bree had learned something from her so-called apprenticeship. The girl had often disappeared during her shifts, Bilba thought ruefully.

Both of them looked up at her quiet entrance.

“I was wondering where you’d gotten to,” Frerin murmured.

Bilba took one look at them and lied. It was a startlingly easy choice. “The orcs just wanted me to tend to a higher ranking official. It seemed he had an embarrassing fall down a flight of stairs and didn’t want anyone to know.” The blatant falsehood rolled smoothly off her tongue, almost untainted by guilt.

Almost.

Bilba covered her uncertainty by moving over to the cot and setting down beside Frerin, checking the bandage. At the very least, the other two occupants seemed satisfied with her answer, though Frerin seemed a bit more tense.

“You did well with the bandage, Bree,” she said softly after a short pause, trying to dispel the tension in the room.

The younger girl visibly brightened.

 _I have to stop thinking about her as a girl_ , thought Bilba ruefully. Bree was only a few years younger than she herself was, but had recently reached the age of majority. Bilba had loved having a ‘sort-of-apprentice’ in her healing wing.

She reached over and ruffled Bree’s hair, who leaned into the touch, a slight smile upturning the corners of her lips.

Bilba forced herself to focus on the present, on the people in the room with her. Anything but—

No.

She wouldn’t think of it.

Bilba tried to occupy her thoughts by fixating on Frerin’s hair, his braids worn proudly. There, hidden behind an ear, was the braid which marked him of the line of Durin. He’d once told her that while he wore his Durin braid with pride and dignity, he didn’t dare finish it off with a bead bearing the Durin crest. The risk of being recognized by Azog or another particularly educated orc was too great. So instead, there was a small wooden clasp, simple, but polished and smooth.

Bilba looked up, suddenly realizing that Frerin was calling her.

“Bilba?’ she looked up.

She hummed in response, but this time Frerin wasn’t so willing to accept the bluff.

“Are you alright?” he asked. She raised an eyebrow and he laughed softly. “Stupid question, I know. Sorry.” 

“Nice to know you’re as non-functional as ever,” she smirked lightly.

“Nice to know you’re still so gifted at subtly changing the subject,” Frerin retorted, snorting slightly at her failed attempt.

Bilba’s shallow grin fell off her face, and a look at the dwarf sitting next to her told her that there’d be no skirting the issue. Frerin always had been able to tell when she was close to reaching a mental breakdown.

Well, closer than the slaves were at any given point. She sighed.

 _I can’t tell him_. Bilba thought. She’d originally planned on doing so—on being able to have him with her as an anchor when she was called back down there to finish healing the…..

 _No._ She closed her eyes and shut out the thought. Bilba wasn’t sure why she was so hesitant to think of what’d been down there. But there was some part of her that just wanted to forget everything and try to return to normal.

Well, as normal as a slave can get.

But now, she couldn’t find it in herself to drag him into this. She couldn’t.

But maybe she could.

“Bree, how about you go and refill the water pitchers from the fountain?” Frerin’s voice sounded soft and comfortable in the small chamber. It was _that_ voice. The voice that meant he’d find out what was bothering her. And most of the time she was grateful for it. He’d always help her with whatever she needed, whatever was wrong. It was one of the only constants in her life. .

Bilba found herself longing for that sense of security and comfort, warped though it may be in this hell-hole of an existence. A mental countdown began playing in her mind, ticking down the seconds until she would tell him what she’d seen under the mountain.

A deep breath.

“Frerin?” she laid a hand on his shoulder, needing the physical stability. “There’s some bad news.” Bilba took a moment to figure out how to word what she needed to say, but her thoughts were cut off.

“The Tournament? Yeah, I know.” Frerin said in a low voice, slumping in resignation—and a very uncharacteristic hint of uncertainty.

No.

_No._

Of all the things Frerin could have said, this was the worst. The Tournament was a bloody, perverted and twisted form of entertainment for the orcs, doubling as a way to permanently punish difficult slaves. If you went to the Tournament, you were dead.

It was one thing to be sent to fight in a singular match, but another entirely to do this.

Younger orcs, bloodthirsty for glory and trained since birth would enter themselves in the games, systematically brutalizing slave competitors before mercilessly offering a slow death. It was always an orc who emerged as the victor; the emaciated slaves had never stood a chance.

A growing sense of horror filled her, blotting out everything but nightmarish images of Frerin bleeding out in a million different ways, lying dead on the arena floor.

“I’ll be fine,” Frerin was saying, his words piercing through the invisible she’d unknowingly hidden behind. “None of the other slaves have the training that comes with being of the Line of Durin. I know how to fight their ilk.” He looked up, a fierce resolve in his eyes. “I know how to _kill_ their ilk.”

Bilba nodded numbly, letting herself be comforted by those words and resting her head on his shoulder, even though they both knew it was an empty promise. She couldn’t think of what would happen if…

She couldn’t tell him. The realization hit so suddenly that Bilba felt it physically jolt into her soul. Something hummed in the background of her mind, advocating that she tell him but she pushed it away.

She didn’t need to distract him.

But Bilba wanted him to know so badly that it physically ached, all her emotions and thoughts sealed inside a pressurized bundle of nerves. She wanted so badly to have him with her next time she went down there so she wouldn’t have to risk seeing those horrible visions again. Whatever the mountain had done to pull her back was proof that she needed a firmer connection to Erebor.

But she couldn’t.

She wouldn’t put that on him. He didn’t need something else to worry about on top of that damned tournament. Frerin had to fight to the death _multiple times_ in the coming weeks, and she was whining about healing a sickly, weak, dragon.

She could handle this on her own. She _would_ handle this on her own. And maybe then she’d stop being so needy.

And so as Bree moved to reach for the door, Bilba plastered on a splintered smile, remembering to make her eyes crinkle upwards in just the right way to catch the light. The expression crossed her face, spreading anguish and a black stain of emotion as it morphed into a passably genuine smile. A lone tear began to form behind the mask, but Bilba clamped down on it and forced everything into oblivion. She would _not_ worry Frerin. Not if she didn’t absolutely need to.

It seemed to work. On the outside, she knew she was somewhat subdued, but the smile would appear natural and real. And Frerin seemed mostly satisfied, nodding and relaxing slightly.

But behind it all, Bilba felt yet another piece of herself shatter into a million pieces, fractured and broken beneath the façade.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

“What are they saying?!”

“I thought I told you to shut it! I can’t hear anything over you yammering in my ear!” Fili reached over and smacked his brother on the head, deliberately ignoring the indignant yelp that followed. He rolled his eyes and pressed his ear closer against crack between the thick wooden door and the wall.

There was another person in the room speaking with Thorin and Dis. Judging by the loud bonk and the muffled curses he’d heard when the door opened, Fili guessed it wasn’t a dwarf, but rather a man. It didn’t take much intelligence to pinpoint that the strange occurrence was undoubtedly connected to Thorin’s plans.

He closed his eyes, and burrowed within the deepest confines of his mind, searching for a specific area of consciousness. _There_. He placed a palm onto the rough stone floor and pressed upon it, feeling the minuscule ridges and depressions. Fili cast his senses into it and focused. Beside him, Kili sensed what was happening and copied his brother’s movements. He’d never had the sheer precision of stone sense that Fili had, but it was still present. So while Kili could pick out vague shapes and motion, Fili’s was akin to seeing with his eyes closed.

After a brief moment, they straightened.

“Definitely a man,” Fili whispered, his brows furrowed. What on Arda could Thorin gain from a man?

A quick glance at his dark-haired brother revealed the same confusion.

“I think they’re planning to go to Erebor,” Kili mused, toying with the idea.

“Erebor,” he whispered. The Lonely Mountain, the subject of so many tales he’d been raised hearing. It had long since passed into legend for him, a piece of dwarven history so renowned, spoken of with reverent awe—and tangible sorrow. And knowing Uncle Thorin, he wouldn’t be simply organizing a sightseeing trip. Judging by the light shining through his brother’s eyes, he could tell that Kili was thinking the same thing.

Fili hadn’t directly considered that as a possibility, but now that he was hearing it, everything made perfect sense. What else would require so much secrecy and delicacy when dealing with the preparations. But would enough dwarrow commit? Would they number enough to stand a chance against the hated firedrake that had settled upon their ancestral home?

It seemed so far out of reach, and yet suddenly so close at hand. “I knew they were planning something.”

“You’d have to be deaf to not know,” muttered Kili.

Fili smacked him. Again.

“Ow, what was that for?!”

Fili tried to muster a Thorin-worthy glare to send at his brother, but failed spectacularly. The exuberance of knowing they might be going to Erebor was overwhelming, and he was helpless to stop a huge grin from spreading across his face. “I’m sure you know very well what that was for, you useless lump of eavesdropper.”

Kili rolled his eyes and smirked, then turned back towards the door. But not without a surreptitious smack at Fili’s shoulder.

Fili raised his eyes to the ceiling and heaved a long-suffering sigh. Such was the burden of being an older brother, and heavy are the shoulders to carry that burden.

Kili just snickered.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Bree bit her lip. There was definitely something wrong with Bilba. She’d been training under the hobbit for a few years now, and had grown accustomed to sensing the inner turmoil which was usually so carefully hidden. Today it had been exposed, much like an open wound.

Frerin had definitely noticed too, though he had also sensed, much like she had, that any pressuring would only result in her clamming up. Bree could tell that he’d filed away everything for later discussion.

She aimlessly wandered the mountain, alone with her thoughts. As always, the southwestern corners of the mountain were sparsely populated due to the overly ridiculous superstition that no orc wanted to be closer to the elves. As a result, the main occupants were slaves. _Not slaves,_ she told herself, _prisoners._

But it didn’t make a difference. It hadn’t made a difference in the hundreds of times she’d thought it. Bree supposed that she was still hanging onto her life before _this._ The green hills, the blue sky, but most of all, her family. She could give up the scenery, she could be separated from them, but never would she suffer the degradation of being considered property. A thing. Never. Bree clenched her teeth and forced her thoughts along a different path.

A few more minutes of wandering brought her to one of her favorite places in the mountain.

She stepped inside and took a moment to look around at the exquisite architecture, the vaulted ceilings, and the mostly untouched sculpted walls near the top. The orcs must not have been able to reach that high, or else they would’ve defaced the beauty along with everything else in the mountain. She could even see a few gems catching the light, sending bright rays of light skittering throughout the room and illuminating it with fierce brilliance.

Somehow her feet always brought her back here, one of the only places to retain the beauty of Erebor before it had fallen.

Bree shook her head, clearing out any useless thoughts. Sightseeing wasn’t what she was here for. She was only in this corner of the mountain to search—it was the only place left. Being one of Bolg’s informants had given her almost unrestricted access to every level of the mountain, barring the private rooms of Azog and Bolg themselves. Not that the slaves knew.

No, she was under strict orders to keep her… _occupation_ under strict secrecy. It would damage her usefulness, or so Bolg had said.

But she’d searched every other corner and crevice of the mountain, every hidden nook, crevice, and alcove.

Useless, everything was useless.

A sudden breathless yell broke out as she kicked at a stray piece of debris. It arched through the air, impacting the wall with a pitiful crash. Her so-called ‘spying skills’ were useless if she couldn’t even find a measly dungeon.

She sighed and sat down, trying to combat the emptiness in her mind.

She’d keep looking. She had to.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The shadows moved and flickered, an eerie quality filling the air from the motion of the lanterns. A faint murmur made its way through the thin glass of the windowpane, a testament to the low conversation inside.

“-loyalty will be rewarded. Each and every one of you,” came the deep voice.

That would be Thorin’s voice, thought Dis. She approached the door, turned the handle, and stepped inside. The conversation immediately ceased, and all eyes turned to her.

“Well,” she began, “don’t let my presence here interrupt. I’m merely here to supervise.” Dis nodded to Thorin. “I hope I didn’t miss anything important.”

He shook his head. “We’d only just started.”

“Then let us continue.” Dis motioned back to Thorin, then moved to take her place beside him.

And so he did, weaving tales of magnificence and woe, a riveting account of the fall of the Lonely Mountain. He spoke of the tragedy of the desolation of Smaug, the hardships of the wandering years, and of hope for the future—the hope of a better life for themselves and their children and their children’s children.

And though he wore no crown nor mark of his station, all those present saw in him an inherent dignity, a sheer persona of kingliness, and their loyalty to the Line of Durin was redoubled with fierce pride.

When he finished speaking, a reverent silence was tangible in the air, each dwarf filled with a bright ember of hope kindling in their hearts.

It was such a shame, then, that it was so rudely shattered by Dis abruptly pivoting around, a furious glare on her face.

All eyes followed her intense gaze to rest upon the window, where two young faces were framed in the glass, a mortified grin on both of them.

The dark-haired one waved sheepishly, then winced when the blond one immediately smacked his shoulder.

“You’re grounded,” Dis said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, like I mentioned earlier, finals are coming up and I have online class for three hours every Saturday, not to mention all the homework and studying I need to do, so I can't promise I'll have the next chapter up next week, but I'll do my best to have it up sooner rather than later :)  
> And constructive criticism is always, always welcome!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I am SO SO sorry that it's been *checks the calander* over three months since I've updated  
> I've been really busy with school and just life in general and the writing just stopped flowing for a while. But I hope that I can get back on an at least semi-regular schedule for updates   
> and as always thanks for reading!!!

Bilba had been down here too many times to count. The huge stone caverns had lost her admiration, and now they were just the setting of her latest and least enjoyable duties. She didn’t marvel at the shimmering rocks set into the massive walls like she had at first. Now, she just kept her eyes trained on the floor, carefully obeying every demand thrown at her, and always avoiding the sleazy orcs who took it upon themselves to accompany her down here.

“Stop here,” one of them sneered down at her.

She slowly took a seat on a stray boulder near the rough walls, every action meek and subservient. No need to attract more attention than strictly necessary. She’d been under careful scrutiny these past few weeks as a result of her outburst.

 _How could I have been so stupid?_ Bilba berated herself, cursing her inability to control her temper when she needed to the most.

The “outburst” in question had been a hasty, last-ditch effort to keep Frerin from the tournament. Instead of releasing him from her care, she’d tried to convince the orcs that the dwarf was the unfortunate recipient of an infectious disease, caught from the nasty slice on his arm.

It hadn’t gone over well.

Bilba let her mind skip over the less pleasant details—they didn’t need remembering—but now she was known to have willingly lied to an orc, and was therefore completely untrustworthy. It didn’t matter that she was the best healer in Erebor, by the sole reason of her Gift, she wasn’t to be trusted with anything. Bilba didn’t know how Azog and Bolg had found out, but they had, and quickly.

Thus, the reason why she had an extra two guards flanking her in the corridor.

Bilba massaged her temples. The sudden proximity to the earth and mountain underfoot had made her Gift strange this morning, pulsing and just generally unpredictable. She could feel a headache coming on, even this early into her day. The constant strain of healing Smaug—a much larger creature than she normally worked on—had caused her to begin having headaches. And the additional healing of whatever corruption was there only made it worse.

The guards were still fiddling with the lock on the door a few feet away, rattling the heavy metal contraption needlessly. It created unnecessary noise which was amplified in the small stone passage. _Oh joy,_ she thought, _another contributor to this stupid headache._

Finally though, the imbeciles managed to unlock the damn thing and she was hauled roughly to her feet and shoved through the door, falling to the ground in the large room.

Though by now it was no shock, looking up at the dragon always put a pit in the bottom of her stomach. Everything about this place just seemed _wrong_. The air was too heavy, the ground too rough, the walls too imposing.

But she knew what was expected of her. Bilba scrambled to her feet and made her way slowly to the iron bars, always mindful of the orcs staring at her from a safe distance away.

That was another development. Recently, when healing the dragon, the great beast would begin to heat up and almost produce a sort of glow from within his chest that proved to be extremely hot. For whatever reason Bilba was entirely unaffected, but she’d had to heal several burnt orcs who were unlucky enough to have been standing directly behind the bars.

Bilba now grasped those bars and slipped through, swallowing lightly at the eye that had just snapped open, then wincing when she brought up her head too fast and irritated her headache. They had a sort of mutual agreement now; Smaug wouldn’t hurt her—or try to eat her—and she would be as unobtrusive as possible in her healing. It was an agreement that had been established only with much trial and error.

So she stepped forward and laid her palm on the bright scales. As always, they were pleasantly warm beneath her skin. The heat slightly eased her headache, but not by much. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. Then she began.

Energy channeled through her from the earth, seeping into her bones and fortifying her. Then it swept into the dragon, beginning with the more superficial wounds.

Under her touch, the dragon huffed. Bilba had a slight feeling that he almost enjoyed this, the new routine of healing.

 **Something amusing?** came the voice from inside her head. Instead of harsh and grating when they’d first met, Smaug’s voice was now much less threatening, though it did irritate the constant pounding beneath her skull.

“No,” she replied, whispering to hide her words from the orcs, “just noticing that your scales have changed again.” Where they’d once been a deep blood-red hue, now they were closer to the golden glow of embers from a dying fire. “I wonder if it has anything to do with your fire coming back.”

Smaug tilted his head, considering the idea. “Perhaps,” he huffed, though not unkindly. He twisted around to view his scales properly, eyeing them intently. To test the theory, he kindled the fire within his chest, letting the bright glow spread out to the rest of his abdomen. Sure enough, the scales lightened even further, though in a curious way. Instead of simply being illuminated, the scales themselves seemed to shine with an inner light, making them nearly transparent, but not clear. It was like the strange, fluid motion of a fire, contained within the scales.

“Oi, none of that now!!” barked an orc from behind them. The horrid creatures got very uneasy at any sign of Smaug’s fire.

Smaug rolled his eyes and let the flames die down, his scales shifting back to the normal opaque hue.

Bilba took a few moments to look in wonder at the sight, then asked, “Are you ready?”

The dragon took a long, slow breath, then huffed, “Might as well get this over with.”

Bilba hated this part. It was easy enough to continue healing the swollen bumps and bruises, the cuts and scrapes, and even the infected manacle abrasions. But that tight knot of corruption continued to barrage her with the horrible visions and a sense of _wrongness_. Even Smaug seemed to feel it as well, though to a lesser extent.

Each time she came down here and focused on that deep internal injury, things went from bad to worse. She would become weak at the knees from the sheer mental strain.

Bilba felt the ground beneath her feet, the soil firm and dry. It was easy to draw energy from the earth—and so was the stone.

Recently, she’d been able to pull from the stone too, and it somehow gave her a new awareness.

So she pulled, from the earth and from the stone.

But this time there was something different. Somehow, the two energies diverged, splitting where they normally joined in unison. The warm, fluid energy of the earth centered in on her, while the cooler, more balanced stone energy siphoned off to the dragon.

The difference should have been enough to make Bilba think, but she just mentally shrugged and went with it. What was one more change? After all, she wasn’t sure of the exact specifics of stone magic, how could she anticipate what would happen when she used it?

Then the humming started. It began as a quiet frequency at the base of her skull, then evolved into a deep hum which filled her whole head.

But her head was bigger now. _What?_

Not her head, her _mind_.

Bilba became more aware, more focused than she ever had been. While the buzzing in her mind was distracting, it was also the exact opposite. It was like…another being.

She began to panic, drawing in shorter, shallower breaths. _What was happening?_

She’d never heard of anything like this happening to a hobbit before.

And Smaug seemed to feel it too. He’d gone rigid, completely motionless except for the short spines on his head that were quivering slightly. She reached out mentally to him, opening again the link he’d established when he first spoke in her mind.

Smaug responded, but only in concepts and emotions, not words. From what Bilba could tell, he was also…expanded, for lack of a better term. Somehow, they were able to both harness the energy of the stone, while using the earth as an anchor.

Even thinking about it make Bilba’s head spin.

But the whole mountain was alive. It was humming to them, almost trying to say something. But she couldn’t hear it, so she reached back.

That was a mistake.

Bilba was so firmly rooted into the surrounding energy that when tried to pull the energy to respond, she took too much.

Looking down, she dimly noted that she was actually glowing. Glowing as in her skin was physically luminescent.

Did she take that from Smaug? Had she drawn off of Smaug’s energy???

_Oops. That’s not good._

But, as she tried to sift through the energy, she found something. The source of corruption in Smaug.

_What?_

This didn’t make sense, none of it made sense. But there it was. Intangible and incorporeal, but she was able to feel it all the same.

It was much more accessible than it had been. Had the energy mishap somehow dislodged it?

Again, none of it made sense.

But she might as well try to do the work now rather than wait for it to become more difficult. Bilba clenched her jaw and pulled at the corruption.

It was impossible to destroy, but somehow she isolated it, so that it became separate from Smaug. It was still there, but it wasn’t ingrained in his mind anymore.

 **Well that was interesting,** came Smaug’s voice.

“Yes it was,” replied Bilba, regaining her senses. “Do you have any idea what just happened?”

 **No more than you do _,_** he said. **But I feel… freer somehow.**

“Yeah, me too,” she lowered her eyes. _As free as I can feel in this hellhole._

Smaug nudged her shoulder. **You’re still holding onto all that energy,** he reminded her.

Her eyebrows furrowed. She hadn’t noticed, but now that she was thinking about it, everything was still there buzzing under her skin. Bilba just shrugged and pushed it all out.

Smaug froze, and Bilba realized she had vastly underestimated just how much energy she’d been holding onto.

The sudden outpour of it all flowed violently back into the earth and stone, causing a rumble to echo in the chambers. She tensed, waiting for something to happen.

When nothing did, she loosed a sigh of relief. At least everything seemed closer to normal now. And maybe she shouldn’t use the stone energy anymore—she clearly didn’t know how to correctly channel it.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

Fili shot upright in bed, a cold sweat on his skin. His heavy breathing echoed in the small room.

 _Something was very wrong._ He got up and quickly walked to the room next to his.

“Kili, Kili wake up!” he whispered, nudging his brother awake.

“Uunnnnghhh,” grumbled his brother. “Why’d you wake me up?”

“Did you feel that?!” Fili asked urgently, ignoring the sleepy protests. “The… I don’t know what it was, but did you feel it?”

“No. Lemme sleep.”

“Kili, something’s wrong with the mountain.”

That got him awake. “What?”

“I said--” Fili started.

“I heard what you said,” Kili interrupted, “What do you mean, something’s wrong with the mountain?”

“Erebor,” he breathed, “I…I felt something happen. It was like…” Fili ran his hands through his hair, frantic and uneasy. “Like… _I don’t know what it was,_ Kili. I just felt _something!”_

Kili sat up. “How could you feel something from Erebor? We’re too far away.”

“I don’t know,” he repeated, at a loss for words. “I just know I felt something.”

“Go back to sleep. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“I’m telling you, I felt-”

Kili put up his hand. “Yeah, you told me. And I’m saying it was probably just a dream.”

“A dream?” Fili asked, incredulous.

“I mean, think about it,” said Kili, half asleep again. “What are the chanced that you felt something from a mountain hundreds of leagues away?”

Fili sighed. “You’re probably right.”

“Can I get that in writing?” mumbled Kili.

He huffed, turning around to go back to his own room. “I’m going back to sleep.”

But as he lay back down, Fili knew there was no way he’d be able to go back to sleep. Sure, it was highly unlikely, and statistically improbable, but he _knew_ that he’d felt something. It was still there, buzzing under his skin like a vat of energy. And somehow—he didn’t know why or how—but Fili knew it had come from the mountain.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

A few hours later, Azog was snarling at Bolg.

“Your oversight of our ‘side-project’ is going too far. It’s disturbing the mountain,” he said, his voice gravelly and dark.

“It was unavoidable,” replied Bolg.

Azog grunted and began pacing the room, eying the map on the wall critically. He stopped and began to trace the outline of the mountain. It was a detailed depiction of the mountain’s layout, with every corridor, room, and catacomb painstakingly etched into the shining stone. It was a true masterpiece, and took up the whole wall of the council meeting room.

“The catacombs,” he announced suddenly, the light glinting menacingly on his pale features. “I need plans and information, now.”

Bolg thought for a moment. “I have a good source of information about the slaves’ doings.”

“Good,” murmured Azog. “Good.” He began to pace again. “The wereworms, the dragons, and the dwarves. Those are the options for right now.”

“All of them,” Bolg went up to look closer at the map. “We need to use all of them.”

“Yes,” agreed the other orc. “If we’re to take the city, we need all the resources we can find.”

“And those blasted tree-huggers aren’t helping either.”

“No, but if we launch the two-pronged attack, we stand a chance.” Azog settled his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “We’ve stayed silent all these years. Now it’s time to unleash the fire of wrath.”

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

Bree stood frozen outside the door, listening to the conversation in disbelief.

_They were going to attack Laketown?_

She’d only heard rumors of the place—a small, desolate village floating on a lake. But why? What did the orcs have to gain from such a small prize? Bree knew that the orcs went to extreme lengths to keep their presence in the mountain a secret. So why would they reveal themselves for a town verging on the brink of starvation? It didn’t make sense.

But then again, none of her life made sense.

Footsteps brought her back from her thoughts, and she jerked upright in terror. If Bolg— _or worse, Azog_ —knew that she’d been eavesdropping…

Almost soundlessly, she darted backwards about half of a stone’s throw. Then she began to walk forward, deliberately sounding each step slightly louder than she normally would. And when the door snapped open and Azog walked out, she was still a few feet away and could pretend to be shocked.

Knowing what was expected of her at that point, she lowered her head and clasped her hands behind her back as he passed by her without even a second glance.

After a few seconds, she took a few tentative steps forward to stand near the doorway. This was the scheduled relay of information. It was only a few moments later that Bolg beckoned her in.

“What do you have?” he grunted.

Bree swallowed. “You know my rules,” she said, her voice low. “I don’t talk until—”

Bolg cut her off, “I know your damn rules. He’ll be here in a minute.”

A quick sigh of relief, and Bree went to wait by the door, making herself as quiet and small as possible. And she waited.

Waited for what seemed like a lifetime.

Finally, a harsh knock sounded on the door and she opened it as fast as she could. “Haleth,” she breathed.

She wanted to grab him and hug him and hold her brother close for the rest of her life.

“Bree!” he said, smiling with tired eyes hidden behind limp curly hair.

“You look horrible,” she mumbled as she rushed over to him, kneeling to gather him into a bone-crushing hug. “And you’ve grown so much.”

Haleth chuckled weakly. “Must be all the _special_ food they’ve given me.”

Bree’s eyes hardened and her brow furrowed in concern. “Have you been eating enough?”

He just tilted his head, gave her a look and raised an eyebrow. “ _Really?”_ His eyes seemed to ask.

“Yeah, stupid question, sorry,” she muttered. “It’s not like they ever feed us enough.”  
“Hey, but I’m pretty alright, aren’t I?” asked Haleth. Bree swallowed as she took in his withered frame, his too-pale skin, the look in his eyes that no child should ever have. “Yeah. We’re alright.”

She lifted her arms and he stepped numbly forward, stumbling into her waiting embrace. Bree tried to memorize every part of her brother. In this place, any time together could be your last.

“It’s good to see you again, Brienneth,” he said softly, though the words were muffled—his face was still buried in her shoulder.

“It’s good to see you too.” She hugged him tighter, well aware of the irritated glances thrown their way by the orcs.

Haleth pulled back after a few more moments. “Highlight of my week!” he grinned toothily.

A little _too_ toothily.

“Haleth,” Bree gasped, her eyes lighting up with tenderness. “Did you lose a tooth?”

“Uh-huh,” he nodded, matching her smile. “It just fell out a few days ago. It’s my first one!” Then his smile fell and he turned his gaze to stare at his feet, biting his lip. “Do you think… Bree, do you think the tooth fairy will come?” He looked at her with huge, hopeful doe eyes.

A soft gasp escaped her lips and it all came crashing down again. Bree felt a wave of emotion crashing through her, ripping open a gaping tear through the walls of her soul. Just another cruel reminder of the life they live. She would do _anything_ to tell him that _yes, the tooth fairy might just leave a little something under your pillow for you to find in the morning._

But that would never happen. Not in this hellhole. They didn’t even have pillows.

Bree pulled him back into her arms and hugged him tighter, shaking her head ever so slightly. And she _hated_ that his shoulders slumped a little more, and his small frame curled into himself even more.

“You’ve seen enough,” called Bolg from the other side of the room, uninterested but almost irritated at the show of affection. “Take him away.”

The orcs standing next to the door came forward and roughly hauled Haleth from her grasp. She had no choice but to let them. The pit of anger in her stomach grew even further, bright and red-hot with fury. Fury at the orcs, fury at the situation, and fury that her little brother had just lost his first tooth—as a slave in the dungeons of the foulest bests in all Arda. And he was all alone down there. Haleth had told her that she was pretty much the only other person he ever saw.

Bree watched them leave through the heavy wooden doors with a gaping empty hole inside her and let the anger stew. But she couldn’t afford to explode. No, she’d already tried that. It didn’t work.

So she turned around to face Bolg and took a seat.

“Well?” sneered the orc.

She began to talk.

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah I'm sorry I didn't mean to make it sad. 
> 
> but please please PLEASE comment and let me know what you think!! Theories? Ideas? Reactions? Let me know!!  
> (anyone who correctly guesses something will get a virtual cookie!!)
> 
> okay yeah I'm resorting to bribery 😂


End file.
